The Sniper
by ChibiPotatoes
Summary: Horcrum had nothing against this man. It was only orders, and good soldiers always do as they are told. Short 40K story I thought up in school. Nothing special.


**'Ello guys, it's been a _long, long, long_ time since I wrote anything 40Kish and the idea of a short story popped into my head in the middle of AP US History class. I thought I'd just type it up since I haven't been updating stuff like_ United Front_ and _Frozen Tundra_. But don't fret! Those project are still up and running and will be finished in due time!**

**I believe we can all agree. Writer's blocks suck...**

**Well, I've just gone and started ranting haven't I?**

**Enjoy this little story!**

**'Ranger**

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**The Sniper**

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John Horcrum was prone in the second floor of a ruined building. His body was completely covered by a gray blanket that did well to conceal him from the naked eye. The trusty las-rifle he had used for the last seven years sat quietly on its bipod. The stock was pressed firmly against his shoulder, his eye constantly scanning for the target. His right hand never left the trigger. With his free arm, Horcrum reached into a pouch to retrieve a small, dry ration.

It had been three days...

And the rifle hungered for the kill...

The weather had slowly gotten worse over the past few hours. It went from dry and hot to cool and humid. The sky was a shade of dark grey and a steady rain had begun to fall. Although he was soaked to the bone, Horcrum did not move. He just continued to scan the street below.

Enemy activity had been high...

But his target still had not gone by...

He had kept his equipment at a minimum so as to create for himself a low profile. All the trained sniper had carried on his two day trek to the position he now remained in was a dark grey blanket that he had covered himself with, a small pack of food, one extra las-rifle mags, his sniper rifle, a combat knife, and the urban warfare fatigues he had on his back.

Horcrum quietly munched on the somewhat soggy cracker, but his stare did not shift a single centimeter. The risk of missing his target was just too high.

Another, uneventful hour passed. Horcrum had not shifted positions and his gaze had never faltered.

Several more minutes passed before a small movement caught his eye. There were several vehicles moving down the road he had been watching for the past ninety-one hours. After all this time of waiting and preparing and anticipation, his time had finally come.

Preparing and planning for days on end has come to these final dew minutes.

The convoy stopped.

Horcrum's crosshairs were focused on the center vehicle. Two guards came out from either side, both armed with standard boltguns, chattering on the comm-beads inserted into their ears. They took a long look around the surroundings before one began to wave the remaining people out of the transport.

Three more men stepped out. Two were what appeared to be from their former PDF uniforms, colonels. The last man was a former Imperial general. His dark hair was swept back, he held his chin high in prominence and arrogance, his uniform was ironed and brightly colored, several medals hung from his laurels.

Medals that the 111th Death Korps of Krieg and the other regiments of the 269th battle group believed that he did not deserve.

He didn't even know who he was. This man, Julius Handel, had done no wrong to the sniper or his family. Yet, here he was, standing several kilometers away with a sniper's crosshair on the back of his head.

Handel began to walk towards the building that stood defiantly in front of him. Perhaps the only un-cratered building for several blocks.

Horcrum had nothing against this man.

It was only orders, and good soldiers always do as they are told.

He began to slowly pull the trigger back, inhaling deeply as he did.

Did he have any regrets about doing these acts of assassination?

The trigger was decimeters from the edge of the handle. Just a bit more pressure... And this man would meet an untimely end...

If he did, he wouldn't have been very good at it would he?

A small smile crossed his tense face.

Politicians, always on the receiving end...


End file.
